But Catilina and his army never came.
*
If Cicero plodded rather than ran back to the Palatine, he had every excuse. Hortensius had departed the moment his speech was done, carried moaning to his litter, but pride forbade the less secure and far less wellborn Cicero that luxury. Face sternly composed, he waited for his Century to vote, his tablet firmly marked with an L for LIBERO—not too many Ls among the voters on this terrible day! Not even in his own Century could he persuade its members to vote for acquittal. And was forced, face sternly composed, to witness the opinion of the men of the First Class: that thirty-seven years were not long enough to prevent damnation.
The clarion call to arms had burst upon him as a miracle, though like everyone else he half-expected Catilina to bypass the armies in the field against him, swoop on Rome. Despite which, he plodded. Death seemed suddenly preferable to the fate he now understood Caesar had in store for him. One day when Caesar or some tribune of the plebs minion deemed the time right, Marcus Tullius Cicero would stand where Gaius Rabirius stood, accused of treason; the most he could hope for was that it would be maiestas, not perduellio. Exile and the confiscation of all his property, the removal of his name from the roll of Roman citizens, his son and daughter branded as of a tarnished family. He had lost more than a battle; he had lost the war. He was Carbo, not Sulla.
But, he said to himself as finally he climbed those endless steps up to the Palatine, I must never admit it. I must never allow Caesar or anyone else to believe that I am a broken man. I saved my country, and I will maintain that until I die! Life goes on. I will behave as if nothing whatsoever threatens me, even in my mind.
Thus he greeted Catulus in the Forum the next day cheerfully; they were there to see the first performance of the new tribunes of the plebs. “I thank all the Gods for Celer!” he said, smiling.
“I wonder,” said Catulus, “whether Celer lowered the red flag on his own initiative, or whether Caesar ordered it?”
“Caesar ordered it?” asked Cicero blankly.
“Grow up, Cicero! It can’t have been any part of Caesar’s intentions to convict Rabirius, that would have spoiled a sweet victory.” Face pinched and drawn, Catulus looked very ill and very old. “I am so terribly afraid! He’s like Ulysses, his life strand is so strong that it frays all those it rubs against. I am losing my auctoritas, and when it’s finally gone I’ll have nowhere to go except into death.”
“Rubbish!” Cicero exclaimed warmly.
“Not rubbish, just unpalatable fact. You know, I think I could forgive the man if only he wasn’t so sure of himself, so arrogant, so insufferably confident! My father was a full Caesar, and there are echoes of him in this one. But only echoes.” He shivered. “This one has a far better mind, and no brakes. No brakes at all. I am afraid.”
“A pity Cato won’t be here today,” said Cicero to change the subject. “Metellus Nepos will have no competition on the rostra. Odd how those brothers have suddenly espoused Popularist ideas.”
“Blame Pompeius Magnus,” said Catulus contemptuously.
As he had cherished a soft spot for Pompey ever since their joint service under Pompey Strabo during the Italian War, Cicero might have taken up cudgels in the absent conqueror’s defense; instead, he gasped in shock. “Look!”
Catulus turned to see Marcus Porcius Cato marching across the open space between the Pool of Curtius and the Well of the Comitia, wearing a tunic beneath his toga. Everyone who had noticed him was gaping, and not because of the tunic. From the top of his brow to where his neck merged into his shoulders, there ran on right and left sides ragged crimson stripes, puckered and oozing.
“Jupiter!” squawked Cicero.
“Oh, how I love him!” cried Catulus, almost running to meet Cato, and taking his right hand. “Cato, Cato, why did you come?”
“Because I am a tribune of the plebs and today is the first day of my term,” said Cato in his normal stentorian tones.
“But your face!” Cicero protested.
“Faces mend, wrong acts don’t. Were I not on the rostra to contend with Nepos, he’d run riot.” And to the sound of applause he ascended the rostra to take his place with the other nine men about to enter office. Not that he acknowledged the acclamation; he was too busy glaring at Metellus Nepos. Pompey’s man. Scum!
Because the whole People (patricians as well as plebeians) did not elect the tribunes of the plebs and because they served only the interests of the plebeian part, meetings of the Plebeian Assembly were not “official” in the same way as meetings of the Popular or the Centuriate Assembly. Therefore they began and ended with scant ceremony; the auspices were not taken, nor the ritual prayers said. These omissions added considerably to the popularity of the Plebeian Assembly. Things got off to a rousing start, no boring litanies and clucking augurs to put up with.
Today’s convocation of the Plebeian Assembly was extremely well attended, between the festering sore of executions without trial and the balm of knowing sparks were going to fly. The old tribunes of the plebs exited quite gracefully, Labienus and Rullus getting all the cheers. After which the meeting proper began.
Metellus Nepos got in first, which surprised no one; Cato was a retaliator rather than an initiator. Nepos’s subject was juicy—the execution of citizens without trial—and his presentation of it splendid from irony to metaphor to hyperbole.
“Therefore I propose a plebiscite so gentle, so merciful, so unobtrusive that no man present can possibly do other than agree to vote it into law!” Nepos said at the end of a long speech which had reduced its audience now to tears, now to laughter, now to deep thought. “No death sentences, no exile, no fines. Fellow members of the Plebs, all I propose is that any man who has executed Roman citizens without trial be forbidden ever to speak in public again! Isn’t that sweet justice? A voice forever stilled, a power to move masses rendered impotent! Will you join me? Will you muzzle megalomaniacs and monsters?”
It was Mark Antony who led the cheering, which rolled down upon Cicero and Catulus like an avalanche. Only Cato’s voice could have surmounted it; only Cato’s voice did.
“I interpose my veto!” he howled.
“To protect your own neck!” said Nepos scornfully as the roar died away so everyone could hear what followed. He looked Cato up and down with ostentatious surprise. “Not that there’s too much left of your neck, Cato! What happened? Did you forget to pay the whore before you left, or did you need her to do that to you before anything happened below your navel?’’
“How can you call yourself a noble Caecilius Metellus?” Cato asked. “Go home, Nepos, go home and wash the excrement from your mouth! Why should we be forced to listen to putrid innuendo in a holy assemblage of Roman men?’’
“Why should we be forced to lie down under a flimsy senatorial decree which gives the men in power the right to execute men more Roman by far than they are themselves? 1 never heard that Lentulus Sura had a slave for a great-grandam, or that Gaius Cethegus’s father still had pig shit behind his ears!”
“I refuse to engage in a slanging match, Nepos, and that is that! You can rant and rave from here until next December, and it won’t make a scrap of difference!” bellowed Cato, the stripes on his face standing out like dark red ropes. “I interpose my veto, and there is nothing you can say will alter that!”
“Of course you interpose your veto! If you neglect to, Cato, you’ll never speak in public again! It was you and no one else who talked the Senate of Rome around from clemency to barbarism! Not terribly surprising, really. Your great-grandam was a moist barbarian morsel, so they say. Very tasty for a silly old man from Tusculum who ought to have stayed in Tusculum and tickled his pigs, not gone to Rome to tickle a barbarian piggy-wiggy!”
And if that can’t cause a fight, thought Nepos, nothing on earth can! If I were he, I’d be insisting on daggers at close quarters. The Plebs are lapping the insults up as dogs do vomit, and that means I’m winning. Hit me, Cato, punch me in the eye!
Cato did nothing of the kind. With an heroically Stoic effort only he knew the cost of, he turned and retreated to the back of the rostra. For a moment the crowd was tempted to boo this craven act, but Ahenobarbus got in before Mark Antony and began to cheer madly at this magnificent display of self-control and contempt.
Lucius Calpurnius Bestia saved the day and the victory for Nepos by beginning to attack Cicero and his Senatus Consultum Ultimum in the most savagely witty way. The Plebs sighed ecstatically, and the meeting proceeded with plenty of vim and vigor.
When Nepos thought the audience had had enough of citizen execution, he changed his tack.
“Speaking of a certain Lucius Sergius Catilina,” said he in a conversational tone, “it has not escaped my attention that absolutely nothing is happening on the war front. There they are scattered around Etruria, Apulia and Picenum, beautifully separated by many lusciously safe miles, Catilina and his so-called adversaries. Who have we got, now?” he asked, and held up his right hand with fingers splayed wide. “Well, there’s Hybrida and his throbbing toe.” He tucked one finger away. “There’s the second Man of Chalk, Metellus of the goaty branch.” Away with another finger. “And there’s a King up there, Rex the doughty foe of—who? Who? Oh, petunias, I can’t seem to remember!” The only digits left were thumb and little finger. At which point he abandoned his count and used the hand to slap his forehead loudly. “Oh! Oh! How could I forget my own big brother? He’s supposed to be there, but he came to Rome to participate in a right act! I daresay I will just have to forgive him, the naughty fellow.”
This sally brought Quintus Minucius Thermus forward. “Where are you going, Nepos?” he asked. “What’s the mischief this time?”
“Mischief? I?” Nepos recoiled theatrically. “Thermus, Thermus, don’t let the fire under your big arse bring you to the boil, please! With a name like that, tepid suits you, my darling one!” he fluted, fluttering his eyelashes at Thermus outrageously while the Plebs howled with laughter. “No, sweetheart, I was just trying to remind our excellent fellow plebeians here that we do have some armies in the field to fight Catilina—when they find him, that is. The north of our peninsula is a big place, easy to get lost in. Especially considering the morning fog on Father Tiber—makes it hard for them to find a place to empty their porphyry chamber pots!’’
“Do you have any suggestions?” asked Thermus dangerously. He was striving valiantly to follow Cato’s example, but Nepos was now blowing him kisses, and the crowd was hysterical.
“Well, piggykins, as a matter of fact I do!” said Nepos brightly. “I was just standing watching the patterns on Cato’s face—pipinna, pipinna!—when another face swam before my eyes—no, dear one, not yours! See over there? That soldierly man on the plinth fourth from the end among the busts of the consuls? Lovely face, I always think! So fair, such beautiful blue eyes! Not as gorgeous as yours, of course, but not bad all the same.” Nepos cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered. “Ho there, Quiris—yes, you, right at the back near the busts of the consuls! Can you read the name on that one? Yes, that’s right, the one with the gold hair and the big blue eyes! What’s that? Pompeius? Which Pompeius? Manus, did you say? Magus, is it? Oh, Magnus! Thank you, Quiris, thank you! The name is Pompeius Magnus!”
Thermus clenched his fists. “Don’t you dare!” he snarled.
“Dare what?” asked Nepos innocently. “Though I do admit that Pompeius Magnus dares anything. Does he have any peers on a battlefield? I think not. And he’s over in Syria getting ready to come home, all his battles finished. The East is conquered, and Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus did the conquering. Which is more than you can say for the goaty Metellus and the kingly Rex! I wish I had gone to war with either of them rather than with Pompeius Magnus! What piddling foes they must have encountered to qualify for triumphs! I could have been a genuine hero if I’d gone to war with them, I could have been like Gaius Caesar and hidden my thinning hair with a chaplet of oak leaves!”
Nepos paused to salute Caesar, standing on the Curia Hostilia steps wearing his chaplet of oak leaves.
“I suggest, Quirites, that we bring in a small plebiscite to fetch Pompeius Magnus home, and give him a special command to crush the reason why we’re still enduring a never-ending Senatus Consultum Ultimum! I say, bring Pompeius Magnus home to finish what the gouty one can’t even begin—Catilina!”
And the cheering started again until Cato, Thermus, Fabricius and Lucius Marius interposed their vetoes.
President of the College and therefore convener of the meeting, Metellus Nepos decided enough had been done. He closed it well satisfied with what he had accomplished, and went off arm in arm with his brother, Celer, cheerfully acknowledging the plaudits of the overjoyed Plebs.
“How would you,” said Caesar as he joined them, “like to be going bald when your cognomen means a fine thick head of hair?’’
“Your tata shouldn’t have married an Aurelia Cottae,” said Nepos unrepentantly. “Never met an Aurelius Cotta yet who didn’t look like an egg on top by the time he was forty.”
“You know, Nepos, until today I never realized that you had such a talent for demagoguery. Up there on the rostra you had style. They ate out of your hand. And I loved your performance so much I have forgiven you for the slap at my hair.”
“I thoroughly enjoyed myself, I must confess. However, I’ll never get a thing done with Cato bawling out his veto.”
“I agree. You’ll have an utterly frustrating year of it. But at least when it comes time to stand for higher office, the electors will remember you with great affection. I might even give you my vote.”
The Brothers Metelli were going to the Palatine, but strolled the short distance up the Via Sacra to the Domus Publica to keep Caesar company.
“I take it you’re returning to the fray in Etruria?” Caesar asked Celer.
“Off tomorrow at the crack of dawn. I’d like to think I’ll get a chance to fight Catilina, but our commander-in-chief Hybrida wants me to maintain a holding action on the borders of Picenum. Too far for Catilina to march without stumbling over someone else first.” Celer squeezed his brother’s wrist fondly. “The bit about morning fog on Father Tiber was wonderful, Nepos.”
“Are you serious about bringing Pompeius home?” asked Caesar.
“In practical terms there’s not much sense in it,” said Nepos seriously, “and I’m prepared to admit to you that I mostly said it to watch the rump react. However, if he left his army behind and came home alone he could make the trip in a month or two, depending upon how quickly he got the summons.”
“In two months even Hybrida will have brought Catilina to battle,” Caesar said.
“You’re right, of course. But after listening to Cato today, I’m not sure I want to spend a whole year in Rome being vetoed. You summed it up when you said I’d have an utterly frustrating time of it.” Nepos sighed. “One cannot reason with Cato! He won’t be talked round to anyone else’s point of view no matter how much sense it makes, and no one can intimidate him either.”
“They say,” from Celer, “that he even had good training for the day when his fellow tribunes of the plebs get so incensed with him that they hold him out over the end of the Tarpeian Rock. When Cato was two years old the Marsian leader Silo used to hold him out over a cluster of sharp rocks and threaten to drop him, but the little monster just hung there and defied him.”
“Yes, that’s Cato,” said Caesar grinning. “It’s a true story, so Servilia vows. Now back to your tribunate, Nepos. Do I read you alright? Are you thinking of resigning?”
“More of creating a terrific fuss, forcing the Senate to invoke the Senatus Consultum Ultimum against me.”
“By harping on bringing Pompeius home.”
“Oh, I don’t think that would boot Catulus’s rump over the edge, Caesar!”
“Exactly.”
“However,” said Nepos demurely, “if I were to propose a bill to the full People to fire Hybrida for inco
mpetence and bring our Magnus home with the same imperium and dispositions as he’s had in the East, that would start them rumbling. Then if I added a little extra to the bill—say that Magnus be permitted to keep his imperium and his armies in Etruria and stand for the consulship next year in absentia—do you think that would be enough to cause a major eruption?”
Caesar began to laugh. “I’d say the whole of Italia would be covered in fiery clouds!”
“You’re known as a meticulous lawyer, Pontifex Maximus. Would you be willing to help me work out the details?”
“I might.”
“Let’s keep it in mind just in case January rolls round to find Hybrida still unable to close with Catilina. I’d love to exit from the tribunician stage under interdiction!”
“You’ll stink worse than the inside of a legionary’s helmet, Nepos, but only to people like Catulus and Metellus Scipio.”
“Bear in mind too, Caesar, that it will have to be the whole People, which means I can’t convoke the meeting. I’ll need at least a praetor for that:”
“I wonder,” Caesar asked Celer, “which praetor your brother could be thinking of?’’
“No idea,” said Celer solemnly.
“And after you’re forced to flee under interdiction, Nepos, you’ll go east to join Pompeius Magnus.”
“East to join Pompeius Magnus,” Nepos agreed. “That way they won’t have the courage to enforce the interdiction when I come home with the selfsame Pompeius Magnus.”
The Brothers Metelli saluted Caesar affectionately and went their way, leaving Caesar staring after them. Excellent allies! The trouble was, he thought with a sigh as he let himself inside his front door, that one never knew when things might change. The allies of this month could turn out to be the enemies of next month. One never knew.
*
Julia was easy. When Caesar sent for her, she hurled herself at him and hugged him.
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